Brighton Beach Renoirs
by BitShifter
Summary: Steed takes a holiday. Rita gets a tan. (Third in the series).
1. Chapter 1

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 **"Brighton Beach Renoirs"**

An Avengers Fanfiction

 _The third of a series of early John Steed adventures occurring between broadcast episode 3.26, "Lobster Quadrille" (Cathy Gale, March 1964), and episode 4.01, "The Town Of No Return" (Emma Peel, September 1965)_

 **Disclaimer:** Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed

 **July 1964**

 _Steed takes a holiday. Rita gets a tan._

It was early evening when the large green Bentley pulled into the spot behind the small red Mini. John Steed got out of the car and bounded up the stairs in front of Rita Fox's apartment. He used the tip of his umbrella to ring the bell. A medium-sized box was tucked under his arm.

Rita must have heard the Bentley as he approached. She opened the door immediately.

"Good evening, Miss Fox," Steed greeted her suavely. He tipped his bowler with his free hand.

"Hello, Steed," Rita answered with a smile. "I didn't expect to see you." She was still dressed from her day's work at the Ministry library: typically conservative, in knee-length flannel skirt and white blouse. Her red hair had a touch of copper, and her brown eyes reflected a temperament that was intellectual, but capable of fiery anger. A brief hand gesture motioned Steed towards the settee in the living room.

"I have a small present for you." Steed smiled as he handed her the box.

Rita took it from him, resisting the childish urge to shake it to guess the contents. No doubt it was a token of appreciation for helping bring down the Bassett Bookhounds. She flipped open the box lid, and then realized she couldn't have been more wrong.

It was a bathing suit—a bikini, to be exact. The top consisted of two triangles of shiny red fabric held together by strings; the bottom, a narrow red hourglass with two more strings.

"I'm going out to Brighton tomorrow," Steed continued. "I thought maybe you would like to spend some time at the beach."

Rita's eyes went wide. "Steed, I can't wear this. It would be scandalous!"

"I was told it's exactly what they're wearing this year. It's the same kind that Venus Smith wears."

Rita was still stunned from the boldness of the gift. "Who's she?"

"A nightclub singer, very glamorous. She visited the Bahamas with me this spring. Of course, she wears yellow; but I thought red would be the right color for you."

"I do look better in red," she agreed absently. Rita examined the flimsy swimsuit and couldn't help but feel a wanton temptation. Steed was always getting her into trouble, but it was an exciting kind of trouble.

"After the stress of the Bookhounds affair, I thought you deserved a holiday," he remarked.

"I can't take time off work." Rita's protest was half-hearted.

"Aren't you familiar with the Ministry's Standards and Practices Manual?" Steed asked cheerily. "Your animal wounds entitle you to ten days paid leave. Five for the snake, another five for the dogs. One day at Brighton Beach won't even put a dent in it."

"Are you serious?" she asked. It was difficult to tell when Steed was teasing.

"Very much so." His face showed deadpan innocence.

Rita looked at the skimpy bathing gear.

"Try it on," Steed urged with a smile.

She hesitated for a second. During their previous adventures, he had seen her in various stages of undress, and had even sucked snake venom out of her thigh. She still had some secrets from John Steed, but not many. Rita decided her fascination with the suit outweighed her shyness. She ducked behind an Oriental folding screen in her bedroom to change.

After spending nearly a minute re-tying and adjusting the strings, she checked her appearance in the full-length mirror. The suit was indeed shocking. There seemed to be no extra fabric anywhere; merely the barest minimum necessary to cover her most private areas. She briefly debated removing it before Steed had a chance to see. But that would also deprive her of the chance to witness his reaction to it, and rarely did she get a chance to have Steed at such a disadvantage.

Rita stepped out from behind the folding screen and headed back into the living room. She consciously tried to waggle her hips as she walked; it was not something she normally did, but it suddenly seemed very easy when wearing the bikini. She presented herself to Steed with her arms at her sides.

Steed took a second to admire her slender body, shapely hips, bare shoulders, and perky breasts that were usually hidden by the outfits she wore. He looked her over from top to bottom, then made the only comment he could safely make.

"Miss Fox! You have freckles!"

She reddened with embarrassment. "I don't get out in the sun much, but when I do, I get sun-spots on my shoulders."

"I had a Dalmatian named Freckles," Steed reminisced. "We'll have to get some lotion for you, so you can get a tan."

"A tan would be nice," she confessed. "After two years in the library, I'm afraid I have a touch of 'Whitehall pallor'."

"Then it's all settled," Steed said, patting his thigh and standing to leave. "The weather tomorrow is supposed to be sunny and hot. I'll bring the lotion, and you bring the bathing suit."

"What will the Head of Operations say when I'm not at work?" asked Rita.

"Meet me at Victoria Station tomorrow morning before nine," Steed said as he headed for the door. "I'll take care of any trouble that Charles might throw your way."

-oOo-

When Rita put on the bikini next morning, she spent almost as much time adjusting the strings as she did the cloisonne clips that held up her red hair. When she had everything perfect, she pulled on a lightweight pair of shorts, a cotton blouse, and some sandals. The swimsuit _was_ scandalous, to be sure; but she only needed to wear it for a few hours on the beach. It was possible that no one would even notice her. And it would certainly give her a great all-over tan.

She threw a towel and a couple of ten-pound notes into an aquamarine beach bag, donned a pair of sunglasses, and locked her apartment behind her as she left.

When she arrived at Victoria Station, Steed was already standing on the platform, tickets in hand. He was immaculately dressed in a Cardin suit, accessorized as usual with his bowler and umbrella. Rita greeted him with a gentle squeeze on his arm.

"What's the suit for?" she asked.

"I heard there's a Renoir Exhibit at the Royal Pavilion. Forty-two of his paintings in the same place at the same time. I thought I'd check it out before heading over to the beach to change." Steed opened his satchel to reveal a pair of khaki shorts and a brightly-colored beach shirt.

Rita laughed. "It _will_ be a holiday when I get to see you wearing _that_."

Steed produced a bottle of lotion from the depths of the satchel and handed it to her. "And here's some tanning lotion. Don't forget to use a good amount; we wouldn't want you to burn. Or excessively freckle."

Rita took the bottle with a smirk. "I want to see those paintings, too. You know, in 1871 the Paris Commune came within a hair's breadth of throwing Renoir into the river for being a spy."

"I knew you were going to say something like that, interesting trivia included," Steed smiled. "There's a nice stretch of beach out by the Palace Pier. You can catch an hour of morning sun there, then join me at the Pavilion to check out the exhibit. We'll do lunch, and then spend the afternoon sunning together."

Rita smiled and linked her arm through Steed's. "This sure beats the library."

-oOo-

The train pulled into Brighton around ten. The day was gorgeous, as Steed had predicted, and the sun was already gloriously hot. They decided to walk the half-mile to the beach down Queen's Road, taking a shortcut through The Lanes. Rita marveled as Steed pointed out landmarks; he had obviously been to Brighton many times. Eventually they arrived at the end of the Palace Pier.

The ocean was uncommonly blue, contrasting with the reddish-brown pebbles and gray flint shingle that made up Brighton Beach. Already there were a large number of people setting up chairs, spreading out towels, and raising sun parasols along the entire beachfront, extending all the way towards the West Pier. Brightly striped canvas cabanas dotted the landscape at regular intervals. Steed took it all in with an approving nod, then turned to Rita.

"Well, I'm off to the Pavilion," he said brightly.

"Are you sure you won't join me?" Rita asked. As uncomfortable as she felt wearing the swimsuit around Steed, she thought she might feel more uncomfortable around strangers, alone. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'd like to check the security arrangements on the Renoirs," he explained.

"Is this a Ministry thing?"

"No, it's an art-lover thing," Steed grinned. "I've had a bit of experience stealing paintings in my day—"

"Really?" Rita's eyes lit up. "When?"

"Some other time," Steed answered cryptically. "Anyway, if I spot any problems, I can alert the local _gendarmerie_. It would look bad on Her Majesty if any ill fortune befell any visiting French treasures."

Rita rubbed his arm playfully. "I feel better already, knowing that you're guarding the world's Impressionist heritage."

Steed answered her with a smirk and turned to leave. "Remember," he said as he walked off, "use the lotion. And meet me at the Royal Pavilion at eleven-thirty sharp."

Rita strolled onto the beach towards an empty spot about sixty yards from the pier, where she found a free tent to change in. It was one thing to imagine cavorting along the beach in the skimpy red bikini while she was sitting home in her flat; it was quite another when she was actually here, surrounded by tourists. Her hands shook nervously as she slipped out of her shorts and blouse. Perhaps it was best that she didn't have a mirror. Looking down, she saw so much skin and so little fabric. For a brief instant she considered putting her clothes back on and settling for whatever tan she could get on her arms and legs. Then she rationalized that she knew absolutely _no one_ on the beach; these people were strangers, and she would never see or hear from any of them again. Surely, an hour in the bikini could do no harm. After lunch, she could be more conservative and sunbathe in her clothes if she felt too embarrassed.

It took several minutes to apply the lotion, since nearly every inch of skin on her body was exposed. But eventually she was completely prepared for the beach, and she could no longer put off the moment of truth. She crammed her clothes, lotion, and sandals into the beach bag. Then she stepped out of the canvas cabana onto the warm pebbles of the beach.

The sensation was blissful. Rita could already feel the sun baking her as she pranced down to the water's edge. She stood there for a minute to let the incoming surf tickle her toes in an almost orgasmic experience. Then she paced off some forty feet from the ocean and planted her towel and beach bag in the smoothest spot she could find.

Rita was so distracted by the pleasures of the beach that she didn't even notice the other visitors. This was probably for the best, as it would have only reinforced her awkwardness. She was certainly the most scantily-clad woman on the beach that day; maybe even for the whole season. Other women looked on in disapproval as they attempted to divert their husbands' or boyfriends' attention away from the spectacle. Voyeurs with cameras pretended to be taking pictures of the brightly-colored Palace Pier while actually focusing their lenses on her near-nude form.

Oblivious to everything but the soothing ultraviolet warmth, Rita stretched out on her towel and sighed with contentment. It was entirely possible that she would miss her meeting with Steed.

-oOo-


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Situated just a few blocks north of the Palace Pier, The Royal Pavilion at Brighton called forth images of the Taj Mahal with its onion-shaped domes, pointed arches, and miniature spires. Steed knew that it was built in the nineteenth century as a seaside resort for King George IV while he was still Prince Regent, but for any more details he would have needed to consult the encyclopedic mind of Miss Fox.

A crowd of more than a hundred people had already gathered to view the Renoir paintings, and it was still early in the day. Steed had been to the Pavilion before and was familiar with ways in and out other than the main entrance. He quietly slipped through some French doors in one of the ancillary suites and headed for the main exhibit area. When he arrived there, he spent a few minutes studying the layout of the hall.

Each painting was being displayed in an individually lit alcove. These seemed to be portable affairs that had been set up especially for this showing. Velvet ropes kept viewers ten feet away from every painting. Uniformed guards constantly patrolled the main hall. The uniforms they wore were featureless, but Steed imagined that most of the men were members of the British and French police. All in all, the security arrangements seemed perfectly adequate.

Steed saw a couple of suspicious-looking characters hovering near the edges of the crowd. He discreetly moved in closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"How about we pick up some mad money from the aristos here?" The younger-looking one was addressing his companion, a fat man wearing a long jacket.

"Are _you_ mad?" the fat man answered. "Bulldog Fiset is here from the French police, guarding the paints. You nick a purse in front of The Bulldog, you'll find yourself in a hammerlock, mate."

"But it's a cake walk," the young one protested. "Everyone's lookin' at the paints. Be like taking candy from a baby."

The fat man shook his head thoughtfully. "Let's head over to the beach instead. Plenty of easy marks there."

Steed sighed. They were pickpockets, not art thieves. He continued to scan the crowd, looking for anyone or anything out of place. It was then that his eyes fell upon an unusual-looking woman who was talking at length to the security guards.

She was only about five feet in height, and couldn't have weighed much more than seven or eight stone. Her bosom was very large, and it strained against a lacy brassiere that peeked out of a shiny silk blouse. The wool skirt that she wore reached to just below her knee, and she boasted very expensive-looking high heels. Golden strands of blonde hair had been tightly pulled back and knotted into a chignon at the nape of her exquisitely-formed neck.

At first Steed thought she was merely an attractive public relations liaison for the police; but after a few minutes, he got the impression that she might actually be in charge. Perhaps she was the assistant to Bulldog Fiset. After overhearing the pickpockets' conversation, Steed had decided that The Bulldog was definitely someone he wanted to meet.

Steed strolled across the main floor. He waited for a free moment when she was no longer occupied with the guards, and then approached her.

"A fine exhibit we have here," Steed said with a smile.

The woman seemed to pick up on his English accent.

"But you are the government man from London, no?" she asked in a heavy French accent.

" _Oui_. I mean yes, I am," Steed answered politely.

" _Mon deiu!_ I can't believe you made it here so quickly. I only contacted your Scotland Yard this morning. I wasn't expecting you until the afternoon train."

Steed realized she had mistaken him for someone else. He briefly considered clearing up the confusion when she spoke again.

"A devilish business, yes," she began. "I am Special Inspector Simone Fiset of the Surete." She extended a small hand.

Steed had a difficult time containing his surprise. He decided he'd better shake the hand rather than kiss it.

" _Bulldog_?" he asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

She blushed. " _Oui,_ that is what I am called. I did not know that I was so well known up in London."

Steed tried not to laugh as he envisioned this feisty young woman administering a hammerlock.

"And you must be Inspector Teague," she said. "What may I call you?"

"Just call me Teague," Steed said with a broad smile, gallantly tipping his bowler. Best for him to play the part for now. Inspector Fiset seemed swept away by the flood of charm.

"You can call me Simone," she answered with a smile. "I'm hoping you can help me with this terrible situation."

"How bad is it?" Steed asked.

"There are only three real ones left."

With a shock, Steed realized she was talking about the Renoirs.

-oOo-

The pickpockets had left the Royal Pavilion, and they now prowled the beach near the Palace Pier. They scanned the sunbathers, looking for an easy mark. Like everyone else on the beach, their eyes were immediately drawn to the red-haired woman with the aquamarine beach bag.

" _Cor,_ look at the bird in the red bikini!" said the fat man.

" _Blimey!_ What's holding it on? I've only seen French birds wearing a thing cut like that."

"She looks like she's getting hot," the fat man added thoughtfully.

"She's getting _me_ hot," the younger one countered.

"No, lamebrain, I mean we can wait till she goes in for a swim to cool off. Bird like that, must be an international fashion model. Prolly has a fortune stowed in that bag."

"Look! There she goes now."

The two men checked to make sure the coast was clear, then made their move.

-oOo-

After nearly forty minutes in the sun, Rita needed to cool off. She removed her cloisonne clips and stowed them in the beach bag. Shaking out her mane of thick red hair, she headed out to the ocean.

The water felt cool after her long bask in the sun. She skipped about in the shallows, kicking up little splashes with her heels. Then she headed out to where the waves broke, to feel the sexual push-pull of the tow against her nearly-bare body.

For ten minutes she lost all track of time as she frolicked in the surf. All eyes on the beach were focused on her, with many of the onlookers secretly hoping that a wayward breaker would defeat the flimsy string-and-fabric attire that she wore. As a result, no one seemed to notice when a nondescript young man neatly folded his towel, put it away into his aquamarine beach bag, and then casually walked off with it, while a fat gentleman stood casually gazing at the sea nearby.

Cooled off, and a little bit exhausted, Rita headed back for shore. Confusion clouded her face as her eyes swept the beach looking for a familiar landmark. She recognized the canvas cabana that she had changed in, and she walked over to the spot where her towel should be.

She stood there dripping wet, staring at the brown pebbles. Her towel was gone. Her beach bag was gone. Her money, clothes, sandals, and cloisonne clips were gone. Everything was gone.

Rita scanned up and down the beach, looking for any suspicious characters. She walked the beach for a two-hundred yard stretch, then back again. She even checked the interiors of the nearby empty canvas cabanas. She found nothing.

Twenty minutes later, she still had no clue about her missing possessions. At least now she was dry enough that she could head over to the Royal Pavilion to meet Steed. Rita sat down in the sand and started working her hair into a thick red braid down her back. She imagined the shame of having to tell Steed that she had been robbed. It seemed he was always bailing her out of some predicament or another.

The realization slowly dawned on her that asking Steed for help wouldn't be her only shame. She was going to have to appear at the Royal Pavilion wearing a swimsuit that looked like it could be chased off by a strong breeze.

-oOo-

Steed looked thoughtfully at Inspector Simone Fiset. It was a difficult thing to do without staring at her generous bosom.

"How do you know that there are only three originals left?" he asked.

Simone gently placed her hand on his arm. Even though she had met him only minutes ago, she had already developed an affinity for Steed. Perhaps it was his precise manner, his impeccable wardrobe, or his easy smile; but she found herself wanting to make as much physical contact with him as possible.

"We had them tested this morning. Thirty-nine of the paintings have been removed and replaced with near-perfect copies. And this is only the third day of the exhibit!"

"You and your men have been on guard the entire time?"

"Yes, M'sieu. The only people allowed near the paintings have been the guards and the maintenance people who set up the exhibit."

"So it must be an inside job," Steed declared.

" _Oui_. It will look very bad on me if I do not get to the bottom of this affair. Instead of The Bulldog, they will call me The Poodle."

Steed smiled broadly and covered Simone's hand with his own. "We won't let that happen. I've had some experience with art theft cases. I believe we can get to the bottom of this quickly."

"I hope that I can rely on your help, Inspector Teague. I am unfamiliar with the territory here. This is my first visit to England."

Steed nodded sympathetically. "A pity that your experience has been marred by this unfortunate occurrence. You will have to return here under better circumstances. I could show you around London next time. A high-ranking person in the Surete such as yourself needs to become familiar with foreign law-enforcement agencies."

Simone leaned in close enough that Steed could smell the fragrance on her golden hair. "I can think of nothing I would enjoy more."

"I have an assistant who is going to meet me here," Steed said politely. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back. Then we can discuss the details of how the paintings were brought in."

-oOo-

The walk to the Royal Pavilion was a short one, but long enough to cause Rita's bikini bottom to ride up over her hips. The hot pavement was toasting her bare feet, forcing her to skip down the street in a most undignified manner. She had hoped to slip in discreetly, but immediately became the focus of attention when she strolled through the front door. No one else in the Pavilion was dressed in a bathing suit, or even beach gear. Rita was unaware that she was now presenting most of her backside to the gathered crowd, but she was very aware that she was garnering more than her share of wayward glances. She walked deeper into the exhibition hall, hoping to find Steed, or at least a convenient corner to hide in.

Near the far end of the hall, a young man in his mid-twenties was standing behind the velvet rope at one of the alcoves. He had the casual look of someone unconcerned about his appearance; he wore loafers, light khaki slacks, and a short-sleeve button-down oxford with a dark tie loosely knotted. The wire-rimmed glasses emphasized a visage that was studious and capable of great concentration. He was tall and slender, nearly six feet in height. The alcove that he was viewing contained Renoir's famous _Red-Haired Woman in the Bath_.

Rita speculated that she wouldn't stand out so much next to a painting of a nude redhead. It would be a type of cultural camouflage. She moved in next to the owlish young man. He didn't hear her as she approached softly on bare feet.

"Well, at least I have on more than _she_ does." Rita addressed him with an awkward smile and a hopeful look.

He turned at the sound of her voice, and the shock on his face was apparent. Standing before him was an actual living red-haired woman in virtually the same state of undress as the woman in the painting. He couldn't think of a single thing to say, even though she seemed to be expecting a response. Rita noticed his discomfiture and smiled; this only flustered him more. He weakly tried to continue the conversation.

"You're familiar with Renoir?" he asked at last.

"Pierre-Auguste Renoir?" Rita clarified. "Yes, I am."

"Why doesn't this painting have a date?" It was all he could come up with.

"It was painted sometime between 1880 and 1900," she answered. "Not much more is known about it. It was painted before he moved to Les Collettes at Cagnes-sur-Mer." Her French pronunciation was flawless.

"You have a remarkable knowledge of art."

"I studied Renoir when I was at Oxford five years ago," she explained.

"I say, that was the same time that I was at Oxford." He brightened considerably on having found common ground. "My name's Herbert Fredrickson."

"I don't recall ever hearing your name when I was there."

"I didn't go by the name 'Herbert'. My friends just called me 'Freddie'."

"'Freddie The Freshman'," Rita marveled. "What a smashing name." She found herself lapsing back into her college accent. "Did you get your Ph.D.?"

"Yes, in Chemistry. I do research in Swansea."

Rita flinched at this revelation, remembering the secret missile guidance lab there.

"How about you?" Freddie continued. "Did you get your doctorate?"

"Yes, later, from Cambridge. I specialize in Nineteenth Century Literature and History."

"So that's how you know so much about the Renoirs," he mused. The body in the skimpy red bikini drew his eyes in like a magnet. "You don't look like any Ph.D. I've ever seen."

Rita realized that only a few square inches of cloth separated her from being completely naked. "Yes, well, someone stole my clothes down at the beach," she said demurely. "And my cloisonne hair clips."

Freddie looked at the braid running down Rita's back, ventured a delicate touch. "It's a gorgeous color." He didn't mean to stare, but he couldn't look away. Heavens, she was practically _nude_. And she certainly looked nicer than the woman in the painting.

"My name's Rita Fox," she said, extending her hand.

Freddie shook it absently. His eyes had settled on her bikini top. Two sharp points in the fabric indicated that she might be cold, but he had no jacket to offer her. Aware that he was staring overlong at her chest, Freddie averted his eyes downward, and they wandered to the ragged red scar on her right thigh.

"What's that on your leg?" he asked undiplomatically.

"Snakebite," she answered smugly. "I got it in a library."

"What about those bruises on your arms?"

"Mastiffs. I was looking for a book."

"I say, research must be a lot rougher in London than it is in Wales," Freddie said innocently.

"We're thinking of switching over to the Dewey Decimal system. Things should get easier then." She had an impish grin.

Freddie smiled. "You're having me on, now."

Rita smiled back. "Yes, I am." She gently touched his arm as she laughed. This made Freddie quite nervous.

"I know something about these paintings that you _don't_ know," said Freddie, trying to appear nonchalant.

"What's that?"

"They're fake," he whispered conspiratorially.

"That's impossible," she retorted. "I've seen these before."

He shook his head. "I did a spectrographic test on the paint. It contains acrylic polymers. There's no way that Renoir painted these. They must be less than a year old. A colleague of mine is coming down to carbon-date the canvas, but it's really not necessary. They're fakes."

Rita eyes widened. "Good heavens! I wonder if Steed knows about this..."

"Who's this Steed fellow?" Freddie asked.

"Oh, he's a... government chap. Usually interested in these sort of things."

"Well, it's certainly a rum do," said Freddie. "I mean, a Renoir exhibit with no real Renoirs." He glanced nervously at his watch. "I say, I always eat a sack lunch out in the park, to watch the wildlife. Would you like to join me?"

Rita smiled. "Maybe later, Freddie. Right now I'm supposed to meet Steed. Thanks for keeping me company, though. Always good to meet an old school-chum."

"I'm staying in the hotel over by The Lanes, if you need to look me up."

"Thanks for the offer," Rita nodded. Something about Freddie's shy manner appealed to her. She leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He flushed red with embarrassment and hurried out of the Pavilion, somewhat dazed.

-oOo-

Steed was standing near the main entrance to the exhibition hall, scanning the faces of people as they entered. Rita quietly padded over on her bare feet and put her mouth next to his ear. She sang to him in a lilting voice.

"I know something about these paintings that you don't," she teased.

Steed turned to face her and nodded knowingly. "They're fakes."

"How did you know?" She was disappointed that he spoiled her surprise.

"A police inspector told me."

"Does he know what happened to the originals?"

"She. Special Inspector Simone Fiset of the Surete. She wants me to help locate them. Speaking of which, Miss Fox, shouldn't you be locating some clothes? This isn't exactly the beach."

Rita didn't want to give Steed the satisfaction of knowing that she'd foolishly let herself be robbed. She certainly didn't want to beg any money from him. Then it occurred to her that she could probably borrow money for clothes from Freddie.

"I don't know, Steed," she answered. "I'm starting to like the unconfined feeling of this outfit. Nothing to rub against my bruises and wounds. And it's the only way to get a tan."

"It seems to be creating quite a stir," Steed glanced around the room and noticed that all eyes were on Rita. "I'm not sure Venus ever got that reaction."

"Don't you mean 'Miss Smith'?" Rita bantered, envying the first name basis that Venus Smith enjoyed.

"Of course. How did you know about the fakes?"

"There's a research chemist here from Swansea, a Dr. Herbert Fredrickson. He's been testing them," she explained. "So you say they're all fakes?"

"All except three," Steed answered. " _Dance at Bougival_ , _La Loge_ , and _Jugglers at the Cirque Fernando_."

"Painted in 1883, 1874, and 1879, respectively."

"Miss Fox, you never cease to amaze me."

"If it happened in the nineteenth century, I know about it, " Rita reminded him.

"Anyway, I'm afraid I'll have to beg off lunch if I'm to help Simone locate the paintings," he said apologetically.

Rita could feel the hackles rise on her neck. She narrowed her eyes to slits. "Simone? You mean Inspector Fiset?"

"Exactly," Steed smiled. "You seemed to have enjoyed your time at the beach." He once again took in her appearance with a quick glance from head to toe. "Perhaps you can just tan this afternoon?"

"Actually, I'm having lunch with Freddie," she answered back indignantly.

"You mean Herbert? The research chemist?"

"Exactly," Rita smiled. "Perhaps I can meet up with you this afternoon." She stalked away without a backwards glance.

Renoir was one of the finest painters of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Still, many of the art patrons turned their heads away from his canvases to witness the sight that presented itself that morning. It was a red-haired woman with fire in her eyes, clad only in the briefest of swimwear, strutting out of the Royal Pavilion. Her thick braid swung like a tail, and a generous portion of her backside was clearly visible as she stormed through the exit.

-oOo-


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Rita was still annoyed with Steed as she left the Royal Pavilion and headed out onto The Lanes of Brighton. At least she didn't look as out-of-place on the street, where many people were dressed for the beach, although she wore considerably less than most. She remembered that Freddie had said he always ate lunch out in the park, so she decided to seek him out. Perhaps he could spare a few quid for clothes. She would get along just fine without Steed.

A sharp wolf-whistle pierced the noise on The Lanes. Rita turned to see a couple of workmen loading mirrors onto a glazier's truck. They had stopped loading to leer at her; Rita turned red, spun on her heel, and strutted off towards the park, unknowingly giving them an encore performance as the cheeks of her behind peeked outside of the bunched up bikini bottom. This brought another chorus of catcalls from the laborers.

Freddie was eating a sandwich seated on a park bench only thirty feet away. He had witnessed the entire incident. She approached him with as much pride as she could muster.

"Hello, Freddie," Rita greeted him cheerily. "I say, could you lend me money to buy some kit? I have some things to do this afternoon, and I can't go around all day dressed in this bikini."

"I heard the men by the truck," Freddie began. "I'm sorry you had to be subjected to that, particularly since you've just had everything stolen. My wallet's at the hotel. Let's go there, and then we can go shopping in The Lanes and find you some clothes."

Rita looked at the glazier's truck. Letters painted on the side boldly proclaimed they were Head Of The Glass Glaziers, Ltd.

"What are they doing here, anyway?" she asked.

"Two days ago, some vandals broke all of the mirrors in the funhouse out on the Palace Pier."

Rita's eyes lit up at this piece of information. She stared at the truck as the workers carefully loaded a mirror frame onto the side. Freddie thought that she had gone into a trance. He was preparing to disturb her reverie when Rita finally spoke.

"Steed told me that three of the Renoirs were still real," she said.

"Yes, but that hardly makes up for the loss of the other thirty-nine."

"The three he mentioned were _La Loge_ , _Jugglers at the Cirque Fernando_ , and _Dance at Bougival_."

"I believe that's their names. What of it?"

"The size of those canvases, if I recall correctly, are roughly 60 by 80, 100 by 130, and 100 by 180 centimetres, respectively."

"You seem to know everything about the nineteenth century," Freddie replied, clearly impressed. "What's the significance?"

"Freddie," Rita said impatiently. "To my eyes, those are the exact sizes of the three mirrors they're loading onto that truck. Quite a coincidence, don't you think?"

Freddie seemed confused. "As I said, my wallet's at my hotel. Let's go there, we can buy you some clothes, and then we can come back and check into this."

"No time for all that. We have to follow them now!" Rita tugged excitedly on his sleeve. "You must have _some_ pocket change."

"Just this." Freddie dug some coins out of his pocket and showed them to her.

Rita shook her head. "Not enough for a cab." She looked across the street to the bike rental stand. She smiled brilliantly.

"We can rent bikes!"

" _Bike_ , singular," Freddie corrected. "I only have enough for one."

Rita grabbed his arm. "We'll get a tandem, then. Come on!"

Freddie's money was a couple of pence short, and he waited by the curb as Rita haggled energetically with the owner of the bike stand. Her negotiations were expedited by her revealing attire; by letting her rent the bike, the owner hoped to get another chance to see her when she returned it. Rita proudly marched away from the stand, wheeling a tandem bike at her side. Freddie hesitated as she urged him to get on.

"Come on! It's just like being back at Oxford. Cycling along the Cherwell, on a bicycle built for two!"

"I'm afraid I spent most of my time in the lab," Freddie said shyly.

"Actually, I spent most of mine in the library," Rita confided. "Hurry, they're pulling away!"

"I say, shouldn't _I_ be in front?" Freddie protested.

"Get on, Herbert!" Rita ordered brusquely. "I'm driving this rig."

The glazier's truck was starting to pull away. Rita hurtled the bike forward, and Freddie fought to keep his feet on the pedals. He saw Rita turn the handlebars and lean sideways as they swooped around a turn on The Lanes and headed out to King's Road. She was really laying into the pace with her bare feet; her slender body hid some surprisingly strong muscles.

As Rita vigorously pedaled after the truck, Freddie was treated to an up-close display of her round bottom as it bobbed from side to side. The thin strip of bunched red fabric did very little to obstruct his view. He suddenly found that he had grown very thirsty, even though they had only been biking for a few minutes.

-oOo-

"Have you had lunch yet, Teague?" Simone leaned in and pressed her breasts against Steed's arm. If this continued for any length of time, it would be sufficient to cut off the circulation to his hand.

"Why no," Steed answered pleasantly. "What did you have in mind?"

"Since I have been here, I have found a place which serves the most excellent grape. Perhaps we can go there, and I can provide you the details of the investigation."

Steed smiled broadly. "Lead the way, Mademoiselle."

"I have a car," she smiled back. "It is my favorite. I had it brought across on the ferry." She took Steed's arm and led him to a parking area just outside of the Pavilion.

Simone's car was a light blue '61 Fiat Transformabile, hardly any larger than Rita's Mini. It had an open-air sun roof, and the top was rolled back so that the area over the front and rear seats was completely exposed. This would presumably make it easier for The Bulldog to engage in high-speed gun battles, or at least allow for operation of the ejection seat, Steed thought with a wry grin.

He held the door for her as she got in. The steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car for Britain, but just right for Italy or the States. Simone hiked her skirt up well above her knees so that she could put her left foot on the clutch and her right on the gas. Steed was barely seated before she revved the engine and took off at a breakneck pace down The Lanes.

Whenever another car or a pedestrian interfered with her intentions, Simone would bark out curses which defied Steed's knowledge of conversational French. She continued to pull her skirt up much higher than was really necessary for driving. Steed noticed that the color of her silky half-slip matched that of her lacy brassiere. As her slip rode up further during the drive, he caught a brief glimpse of the taut sheen of satin panties.

"Perhaps you would like to take a closer look, Teague?"

Steed was startled at the suggestion, until he realized that Simone had pulled to a stop outside a small cafe. She motioned towards the sidewalk tables with a pert nod of her golden blonde head.

"Of course." Steed hopped out and trotted around to hold Simone's door. His limp became more pronounced when he attempted quick maneuvers like this. The Inspector straightened her skirt back to its normal length and allowed Steed to lead her to a table in the filtered shade of a tree.

Before Steed could even view the menu, Simone had placed an order in sharply clipped French to the serving staff. The frightened expression on the waiter's face revealed that he was familiar with The Bulldog and wanted to avoid displeasing her at all costs. He returned with a bottle of wine, which he carefully uncorked, poured, and offered to Steed for tasting.

Steed took a sip of the wine. "A nice Red Bordeaux," he commented.

"I thought you Englishmen called it a 'claret'." Simone seemed to be closely evaluating his reaction, judging him.

"But that would be an insult to the Aquitane," Steed smiled. "This tastes like a Chateau Latour, from Pauillac in Medoc. A pity that the estate was sold to Harveys and Pearson last year."

" _Oui_. You are quite correct in your identification. You have an extraordinary knowledge of wine, Monsieur Teague."

"Just Teague."

"I find that men who know about wine are very exciting." Simone's eyes lit up. " _Mon dieu_ , but it is getting hot today." She undid another button of her shiny silk blouse and fanned her neck with her hand. She continued talking.

"When you walked from the car, I saw you limping, Teague."

"Just a recent wound," Steed answered casually.

"Made working on a case, no doubt."

"No doubt," he said.

"What did it?"

"Ironically enough, a bulldog."

Simone smiled and leaned over the table, displaying a generous amount of cleavage.

"I would not bite you, Monsieur," she purred. "Unless, of course, you asked me to."

-oOo-

The glazier's truck pulled up in front of a small factory. After a quick beep on the horn, a garage door opened to admit the vehicle. The door closed behind it. Rita viewed the entire scene as she slowed the bike to a stop in front of the building. The sign in front read Head Of The Glass, Ltd.

Freddie dismounted the bike first, hoping to gallantly help Rita, but she hopped off before he could offer her a hand. They hid the bike behind some bushes across the street. There they crouched, out of sight, while they made plans.

"We need to get inside there," Rita said with determination.

"Maybe we should wait, call the police," Freddie suggested, still out of breath and panting.

"No time!" Rita pulled on his arm excitedly. "Let's sneak in the side door over there." She indicated a rusty door with a broken window at the far end of the factory. Freddie stood mesmerized by her pert backside as she sprinted across the street, until he was awakened from his trance by Rita's impatient gesturing to follow.

The irony of a broken window in a glass factory was not lost on Rita. She carefully reached through to the inside and turned the handle. The door opened without too much noise, and Rita put her finger to her lips as she motioned for Freddie to follow her inside.

The main shop floor was cluttered with glass-cutting machines, as well as lathes and saws for turning and trimming frames. A row of crates provided an easy hiding place for the two eavesdroppers. A man who appeared to be the ringleader was standing in the middle of the loading area, arms folded across his chest. The driver of the truck hopped out and approached him.

"We have the last three," he began.

"Did The Bulldog suspect anything?"

"Not yet. They're going to have her tits in a wringer, large as they are, for having all the Renoirs stolen under her nose. We need to hotfoot it out to the dock in Portslade before she discovers the mirrors in the alcoves."

"You're right; if these are the last three, we don't need to worry about the alcoves any more," the ringleader said. "Let's see 'em."

The other man flipped the catches around the edge of one of the mirror frames. He tilted the mirror forward, and behind it Rita could see the bold splash of colors that indicated a Renoir canvas.

"The paintings are behind the mirrors," Rita whispered out of the side of her mouth, "just as I suspected." She turned her head, and realized that Freddie was gone. In his place was a callous-looking thug with a gun leveled at her. A second man stood a few feet away, his gun pointed at Freddie's back.

"We have an audience," the thug sang out loudly in the direction of the ringleader. The two men marched Rita and Freddie out into the center of the shop floor.

The ringleader walked over to Rita. "Why are you here?"

"We know you have the Renoirs," she bragged. "Are the other thirty-nine here?"

He smiled. "This place is hardly secure enough to store some the world's greatest art treasures. No, this is just our staging area, and we're abandoning it right now."

"If these two figured us out, The Bulldog can't be far behind," one of the thugs said. "We need to get out to the warehouse _now_ , so we can head out to international waters."

"No argument here." The ringleader looked Rita up and down, and a lascivious grin came to his face. "That's quite a bikini."

Rita tensed her knee for action. Just a few inches closer, and she'd see to it that he sang soprano for the next week.

"She was just trying to get a tan," Freddie defended pointlessly.

The thug guarding Freddie spoke up. "If she wants a tan, I say we put her on the roof."

The ringleader nodded. "Tie their hands, and put 'em up on the roof. We'll be long gone before anyone shows up to rescue them."

One of the thugs brought some rope, and securely tied their hands behind their backs. Rita knew that as long as her feet were free, she might be able to disable one of the guards, preferably when he led them unaccompanied to the roof. She knew exactly where to kick; it was just a question of choosing the right moment.

"Make sure you tie their feet as well," the ringleader added. "We can't have them walking around up there."

Rita sighed as she felt a rope tighten around her ankles.

-oOo-

Simone curled her arm around Steed's waist as they walked from the parking lot back to the Royal Pavilion. She wasn't tall enough to rest her head on his shoulder, but she would have if she could. Everything about Steed was starting to appeal to her. The investigation of the Renoir thefts felt like an intrusion into her time with him.

Inspector Fiset shook her head suddenly. She was _The Bulldog_. There could be no time for romance until the criminals were put away behind bars. She disengaged her arm from Steed and marched into the Pavilion, firing off a few orders to her men just for good measure. Steed noticed the change, and he joined her in the main exhibition hall, his manner purely businesslike.

"Have you segregated the three remaining originals from the rest of the exhibit?" Steed asked.

" _Oui_. They are over here." She gestured to the three alcoves on the end of a row. "My men have kept continuous watch on them all day. No one has gone nearer than ten feet."

"You mean, like this?" Steed ducked under the velvet rope and walked into the alcove that held _La Loge_. He promptly vanished.

"Monsieur Teague!" Simone was looking straight at him. "Where have you gone?"

Steed popped his head back into view. He used the handle of his umbrella to knock on the pane of reflective glass that shielded the area around the painting.

"Done with mirrors," he said with a wry grin. " _Trompe l'oeil_."

"You are right," Simone agreed, numb with surprise. "It _is_ a trick of the eye!"

"Keeping everyone ten feet away, including your guards, actually made it easier to use mirrors to mask off the alcove while the crime was committed. The painting that these mirrors reflect is already the fake one. Then they remove the original behind cover of the mirrors. Later that night, the mirrors must recess back into the alcove, and all you have is the fake."

"But who could have brought in so many mirrors over the past week without notice?" Simone asked.

"There's a Hall of Mirrors on the Palace Pier, isn't there?" Steed asked.

"Galois!" she tersely ordered a lieutenant over. She rapidly spoke some words in French to him. He ran off, then returned about a minute later and rapidly gave an answer in French.

"I have checked, M'sieu," Simone said gravely. "You are correct. A vandal broke all of the mirrors in the funhouse the day before the Renoirs arrived."

"Do you know the name of the company replacing the mirrors?"

" _Oui_ , it is Head Of The Glass, Limited. What is more, they are the company that provided the alcoves for displaying the Renoirs. They are surely to blame for the thefts. The factory is on the other side of The Lanes, close to the West Pier."

"I suggest we get over there as quickly as possible. With the last originals gone, they'll probably try to head out into international waters."

Simone barked out several orders in French.

"Without you, Teague, the culprits might have gotten away."

"They still may," Steed reminded her.

Simone gently pulled Steed by the arm. "Come. We can take my car."

-oOo-

Freddie was clearly upset. He struggled against the ropes that bound him. The sun was quite warm as it poured down on the roof, and he was sweating.

"I say, I'm not really accustomed to being tied up and held prisoner," he said.

Rita tried to calm him. "It seems to happen to me an awful lot. I sometimes help Steed with his investigations."

"That's the government chap you mentioned. Are you always getting captured?" Freddie asked.

"It does prove that one is on the right track," Rita answered. She smiled to herself when she realized she was quoting Steed.

"Even though our hands and feet are tied, we could still hop over to the edge of the roof," he suggested.

"What, and call out to people passing by?" Rita said doubtfully. "It might take an hour before someone comes by to give us help. No, I have a better idea. Turn around so that we're back-to-back. Then you can work on untying my hands. Are you good with knots?"

"I was a Boy Scout," he boasted.

"It'll be easier if we lay on our sides," she explained. "That way, you won't have to deal with the height difference from being taller."

"Are you sure it wouldn't be better to just shout off the roof for help?" Freddie continued skeptically.

Rita envisioned Steed arriving on the scene. She had worked with him long enough to know that his investigation would quickly lead him to Head Of The Glass. He would show up with Inspector Fiset, _Simone_ , hanging on his arm, and the first thing he would see would be his trusty assistant tied up and helpless, clad only in a bikini, plaintively bleating to him from the roof of the building. She shook her head to dispel the vision.

"Look, just untie the knots on my wrists," Rita ordered testily.

She rolled over onto her side, and Freddie did the same. She could feel Freddie's hands as they groped around behind her back. After a few seconds, she felt a strong tug, and Freddie pulled away.

"Done!" he remarked. "Well, that was easy."

"Are you sure?" she frowned. "When they tied the knot, it seemed quite secure."

"It untied with almost no effort at all."

"Oh, Freddie." Rita started to have an uneasy suspicion. She tried to move her hands, found she could not.

"I say, you would think that criminals would be better with knots, particularly when securing prisoners," Freddie continued.

Rita rolled over and sat up. Her bikini top was no longer tied; it had come completely loose and was now somewhere over her left shoulder. She felt the cool sea breeze blowing over her bare breasts.

"Oh, Freddie," she sighed in resignation. "I'm going to get one hell of a tan."

-oOo-


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Dr. Herbert "Freddie" Fredrickson was confused. Ever since he had met the attractive redhead in the bikini at the Renoir exhibit this morning, things had started going out of control. Now he had traveled across town on a tandem bike, been tied up by art thieves, and found himself stranded on the roof of a glazier's factory. He had hoped to untie the gorgeous red-haired vixen (whose name was Fox, no less!), but apparently something had gone wrong with his efforts. He turned to the woman to see what the problem was.

" _Don't turn around!_ " Rita ordered tersely. "Just work on untying the knot."

"But I did untie it!" he protested.

"The _other_ knot," Rita said heatedly.

Freddie was now sitting up back-to-back with Rita, his hands bound behind him. He felt around again; and indeed, he could still feel a knotted rope on her. Those clever criminals! They must have double-knotted Rita's hands. He set to work untying it.

"I'm getting it now," he said. "They must have put two knots in the rope."

Rita rolled her eyes, and then looked down at the small peaks of her freshly exposed breasts.

"Yes, Freddie," she said patiently. "That must have been it."

-oOo-

Simone's Fiat pulled up in front of a building near the West Pier. The garage door in front was closed, and there were no cars or trucks nearby. The sign in front indicated it was Head Of The Glass, Ltd.

"How do you want to play this, Teague?" She set the parking brake.

"It looks deserted," Steed said. "Let's slip in the side door, discreetly." He indicated the door that Rita and Freddie had used less than an hour earlier.

Steed and Simone strolled casually across the street to the side door. Steed reached through the broken glass and turned the handle. The door swung open noiselessly, and they entered with caution. Simone had drawn a small chrome pistol. Steed looked at the weapon, then at Simone.

"Very fetching," he said charmingly.

The Inspector smiled and blushed. Then her face became a mask of determination as she started to prowl around a row of crates on the main floor of the factory.

The work area was filled with machinery and storage pallets. A flight of wooden stairs led up to a crude mezzanine with catwalks, then on upwards to a trapdoor in the ceiling.

At that instant, they heard a scuffling sound on the roof.

Simone turned to Steed. "Someone's up there, Teague!" Without waiting for him, she sprinted up the wooden stairs towards the trapdoor. She burst through onto the roof, boldly brandishing her chrome pistol.

"I am Special Inspector Fiset of the Surete!" she shouted across the roof. "You are under arrest!"

A man and a woman were seated back-to-back thirty feet away. Both had their legs stretched out in front of them, and their ankles were bound with rope. Their arms were behind their backs, so their hands were probably bound as well; it looked like they were attempting to untie each other's knots. The woman was topless and barefoot, and her hair ran down her back in a red braid. She looked up when she heard Simone's command.

Steed popped his head up through the trapdoor to see what Simone had found. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he took in the whole tableau. He turned to Simone.

"That's Miss Fox," he explained.

"You know this red-haired woman wearing the underwear?" Simone asked with her heavy accent.

Steed arched his eyebrows. "Er, yes, she's my... research assistant."

"Why is she dressed like _le courtesan_?"

"She's trying to get a tan, apparently."

"In my country, women are allowed to dress that way only on certain beaches."

"Here as well."

Simone threw her shoulders back to accentuate her ample bosom. "I, of course, would not be ashamed."

Steed nodded his head amiably. "Nor should you be."

"What is she doing on this roof?" Simone asked.

"Her research must have led her here," Steed mused. "Then she must have been captured. It proves we're on the right track."

"Isn't that Dr. Fredrickson with her?"

"You mean Herbert? Yes, I suppose it would be. She said she was going to have lunch with him. I'd better give them a hand." Steed stepped up through the trapdoor and removed a pocketknife from his jacket.

"Miss Fox!" Steed called out, maintaining a respectful distance. Rita turned and noticed him for the first time as he stepped onto the roof. "Here's a knife." He expertly tossed it to within three feet of her.

"Steed!" she instinctively called with relief. Then her expression changed to one of alarm and shame as she remembered her half-nude condition. She wriggled over to the knife, snatched it up, and then scooted around to hide her bare chest from Steed and Simone. This brought her side-by-side with Freddie; when he turned his head to greet her, he saw the soft pink nipples and his eyes went wide with shock.

"Rita! You're..." He couldn't even complete the sentence.

"Yes, yes, Freddie; that's what you untied," she said edgily. "I'll be free in a second."

On the other side of the roof, Steed inclined his head towards Simone.

"I didn't know she could blush like that," he remarked in a low voice.

" _Oui_ ," Simone said with humor. "Now she is the red all over."

They could see Rita's hands working as she sawed through the ropes.

"Why did she call you 'Stee'?" Simone asked.

"She has a speech impediment. It's as close as she can get to 'Teague'. Don't mention it to her; she's very self-conscious."

"Ah, _oui_."

Rita freed her hands and immediately sought to re-fasten her bikini top. Freddie politely turned his head until she was done. When she had covered herself as best as she could with the skimpy swimsuit, she finished sawing through the ropes that bound them.

Rita knew she wouldn't be able to look Steed in the eye; not now, maybe not ever. Not even in her most dire vision had she ever contemplated a scenario like this. Rita followed Freddie over to the trapdoor and turned to face Special Inspector Fiset.

"I, er, apologize for my... exposure, Inspector," Rita said humbly.

Simone stuck out her own chest proudly, and replied, "No need. It was—how you say?—not a _big thing_ , Mam'selle."

Rita glowered at the subtle insult.

"What have you discovered, Miss Fox?" There was no trace of teasing in Steed's voice, and his smile was genuine.

"We saw some men loading three mirrors onto a glazier's truck," Rita began, keeping her eyes on Freddie. "It occurred to me that they might be the remaining three original Renoirs, so Freddie and I rented a bike to follow them. Unfortunately, we got ourselves captured."

"Excellent detective work, Miss Fox," Steed beamed. Rita basked in the glow of his praise, and then ventured a look at his face. Did she detect a light in his eyes? Could it be that seeing her topless had aroused his desire?

"We overheard the four men speaking of a warehouse with a dock out in Portslade," Rita continued. "My guess is that the paintings are there, and they're loading them on a boat to head out into international waters, where it will be bureaucratically difficult for us to mount a search." She turned to point out to the ocean, still unaware that her bikini bottom was exposing most of her backside, as it had been all day.

"We'll need to drive out to Portslade as quickly as possible," Steed said resolutely. "It's only about three miles."

"We can be there in five minutes in my car," Simone offered.

Rita was excited. "Let's go, then!"

"Surely, Mam'selle, you are not dressed for any action." Simone looked at Rita's body with a dismissive and demeaning glance.

"This is precisely what I want to wear," Rita stated firmly. "I've no time to change. Besides, I need to keep working on my tan."

Rita then turned to Freddie. "Why don't you drive the bike back, and then fetch the police and tell them to look for us at a warehouse and dock in Portslade?"

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Freddie touched her arm tenderly. "Perhaps you should come with me."

"No, Freddie; I'll be fine. They can use my assistance." Rita glanced over to see if she could read anything in Steed's expression. She had no intention of letting him go off alone on some adventure with this big-chested Simone woman.

Freddie reluctantly took off towards The Lanes on the front seat of the tandem bike. Steed and Simone jumped into her blue Fiat. Rita found she was relegated to the back seat. The sun coming through the open roof had heated the vinyl, and Rita nearly burned her rump as she sat down. Her bikini bottom had ridden up, exposing both cheeks. She wondered how long it had been in that state.

A few minutes later they were cruising slowly through the beachfront streets of Portslade. Many of the warehouses had docks which led directly out into the English Channel. Just when the Inspector was starting to grow concerned that the thieves might have escaped, Steed spotted the glazier's truck in front of a warehouse.

"There it is," he said. "Head Of The Glass. The dock's probably around back."

The loading door in front of the warehouse was closed. Simone parked the car sideways across the garage entrance and set the parking brake. She turned to face Rita.

"I believe I have a blanket in the trunk, Mam'selle, which you can use to cover your shame."

"I'm not ashamed," Rita fired back defensively as she exited the car. She'd had about all she could take from this insulting French tart.

"As you wish." Simone took Steed's arm and walked with him around the side of the warehouse.

Rita found she was starting to grow annoyed with the way the Inspector was constantly clinging to Steed. As Simone and Steed reconnoitered the building, Rita wandered along behind. She took the opportunity to re-tighten her bikini bottom, which had come frighteningly loose during the day. Any looser, and she might have found herself displaying the White Cliffs of Dover and the fertile Nile Delta. The last thing Steed and Simone needed was another geography lesson. It was bad enough they'd already been treated to the Rolling Hills of Essex.

-oOo-


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Special Inspector Simone Fiset was checking the outside of a warehouse in Portslade, just a few miles from Brighton. She suspected that it housed a gang of art thieves, and if she was lucky, perhaps forty-two valuable original Renoir paintings. The Inspector was accompanied by John Steed, top undercover operative for the British government. Simone had grown greatly enamored of Steed, whom she believed to be Inspector Teague of Scotland Yard, down from London to help. Also present was Steed's occasional assistant, red-haired librarian Rita Fox, who had been forced to spend the entire day in a miniscule bikini and a long braid due to the theft of her clothes and her beloved cloisonne hair clips.

Steed gestured to the two women, indicating that he had found something around the back of the warehouse. Simone's heels clicked on the pavement as she hurried over to Steed, and Rita pranced over on her bare feet. A motor yacht was moored to the dock in back.

"We're in luck," Steed said. "That must be the boat they intend to use to make off with the Renoirs. That means they're still here, probably somewhere inside the building."

" _Oui_. But how do we stop them?" Simone asked.

"Why don't you just disable the engine?" Rita asked.

Steed and Simone looked at each other and shrugged.

"Don't you two know _anything_ about four-cycle diesel marine engines?" Rita shook her head in annoyance.

"Only the general layout," Steed answered with a wry grin. "I take it _you_ know something about them?"

"I've seen diagrams in books," Rita answered, and then smirked. "Just like with men, all you need to know is where the vulnerable spots are."

Rita walked down to the pier and boarded the boat. Within a few seconds, she returned holding a single greasy machine part. Steed gallantly produced a handkerchief from his pocket for her to wipe her hands.

"There you go. Case closed." Rita beamed proudly.

"Not quite, Mam'selle," Simone said patronizingly. "We must still find the paintings and round up the villains."

"I can't do _everything_ for you, Inspector," Rita replied cattily.

Simone narrowed her eyes to slits and took a step towards Rita. Steed slipped into the space between the two.

"What an interesting warehouse!" he exclaimed. "The thieves must be inside. Let's have a peek through one of these windows, shall we?" He gently took each woman by the arm and led them to the rear wall. They mounted some abandoned packing crates and stood on their tiptoes to bring their eyes level with the windows. Simone gasped as they peered inside.

The warehouse was filled with hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of mirrors. They could hear muffled voices from somewhere in the interior. The Inspector grew restless for action.

"Where is your gun, Teague?" Simone asked.

Rita looked confused at the name the Inspector had called Steed. Did they already have pet names for each other?

"I never carry one," Steed said self-effacingly. "I prefer to do all my fighting with bare knuckles."

Simone smiled and reddened. "Oh, how manly!"

Rita rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"But it is inconvenient now, M'sieu," Simone continued. "Surely, the men in the warehouse are armed. And we are outnumbered."

Steed smiled. "Then we may have to improvise."

Rita eyed Steed impishly. "Well, don't look at me. I don't have any clothing to spare this time."

Simone was confused. She regarded the tiny snippets of red fabric that covered Rita. "What does she mean?"

"Past case." Steed winked at Rita.

"There are three of us," he continued. "If we split up, and each take a separate door, we may be able to convince them they're surrounded."

"You mean a bluff?" Simone asked. She pronounced it 'bloof'.

"Yes, a bloof," Rita agreed.

Steed stepped in quickly once again. "Simone, you take the front door. I'll take the side, and Miss Fox can take the back. We need to make as much noise as possible to sustain the illusion."

Rita bristled at Steed's use of the Inspector's first name.

Simone nodded and stroked Steed's arm. "I trust your judgment, M'sieu. We will follow your plan." Simone pulled Steed around the corner towards the front of the warehouse. She shot some parting words at Rita. "Do not mess things up for us, Mam'selle." Rita reddened and pretended not to hear.

Special Inspector Fiset left Steed at the side door of the warehouse, and quietly preceded alone toward the front of the building. She pulled out her small chrome pistol and checked to make sure it was fully loaded. Her six shots wouldn't last long in a gun battle against four armed men.

The loading door at the front of the warehouse was automatically powered. Simone punched the green button next to the door, then ran back to crouch behind her Fiat, the barrel of her pistol just visible over the hood. The grim determination which had earned her the nickname "Bulldog" was present on her face.

As the garage door lifted, it revealed a scene of menace. The men had scrambled for cover when they heard the door opening, and the barrels of their guns were visible around the assortment of crates and mirrors.

"I am Special Inspector Fiset of the Surete!" she yelled into the warehouse. "You are all under arrest!"

Immediately, all four men targeted her.

"This place is surrounded!" she bellowed.

The men looked at each other uncertainly. So far, they had only seen the diminutive Inspector.

"You're bluffing, _Bouledogue_!" one of the thieves shouted back.

At that moment, Steed kicked open the side door. At the same time, he deftly hurled his bowler at a mirror thirty feet away. It broke with a resounding crash. The effect was the same as if he had fired a gunshot. "We're here, Inspector!" he called out in a gruff voice.

Two of the gun barrels swung around to target the side door. The other two remained aimed at Simone.

Rita had stealthily entered through the back door. She decided not to shout anything, afraid that another woman's voice might spoil the effect Steed and Fiset were trying to create. She thought about breaking a mirror, but she was barefoot. Then she saw a propane-powered forklift near the dock door. Her bare feet couldn't be heard as she sprinted across the floor to where it was parked and pressed the starter button.

The growling roar of the engine filled the warehouse. The art thieves were completely unnerved by the sudden noise; the sounds coming from all sides had them convinced that they were surrounded.

"Put your weapons down!" Simone commanded.

"She's copped us, lads," one of the men acquiesced. He set his weapon on the concrete floor of the warehouse, and the other men followed suit.

With perfect timing, two police cars roared to a stop behind Inspector Fiset. Uniformed officers spilled out onto the pavement, and at Simone's command, took the thieves into custody.

Simone's high heels clicked excitedly across the warehouse floor as she ran to the side door to greet Steed. She threw her arms around his neck and jumped off the ground. Steed had to return the embrace just to keep from falling over.

Rita had never seriously considered the relationship she had with Steed. They had shared a special bond through their brushes with death during the Bookhounds affair. True, it wasn't a physical intimacy; although more than once in the past month she had awakened in the middle of the night convinced that she felt Steed's warm lips on her inner thigh, just as he had done when saving her life in the library cellar. Seeing him in the arms of another woman seemed to have a strange effect on her.

Steed smiled a greeting to Rita as she approached. "It looks like Herbert came through," he said with a nod.

"So many mirrors," Simone lamented. "It may take us weeks to find out which frames contain the stolen paintings."

"Well, we know the size of the last three they brought in," Rita said matter-of-factly.

"We do?" Steed asked.

"Yes!" she boasted. " _La Loge_ , _Jugglers at the Cirque Fernando_ , and _Dance at Bougival_ are roughly 60 by 80, 100 by 130, and 100 by 180 centimetres, respectively."

Rita strutted down the center of the warehouse in her scandalous red bikini, her red braid swinging behind her like a horse tail. The fabric bottom had ridden up over her hips again, exposing most of her backside. She purposely tried to waggle her hips as she examined the mirrors that were stacked on each row. Then she spied something and turned down an aisle.

"Much like these three here." She went to the largest of the three, and flipped aside the catches to remove the mirror.

There, underneath, were the bright colors of Suzanne Valadon and Paul Lhote, the familiar dancing couple at Bougival.

"They probably kept all of the canvases together," Rita declared. "I'm sure if you check the surrounding mirrors, you'll find all forty-two paintings."

"I believe your red-haired assistant is right!" Simone marveled.

"Well done, Miss Fox." Steed gave Rita a secret smile.

"Now if you two don't mind, I'm going to see Freddie." She neglected to add "to get some clothes", but it was foremost on her mind.

As Rita marched off, Simone turned to Steed and shook her head gravely.

"You are an impressive man, Teague," she crooned, "to be able to control such a wild assistant."

Steed smiled. "She does have her uses."

-oOo-

Rita had one of Inspector Fiset's police cars drop her off at the end of the Palace Pier. She still had over an hour before she had to meet Steed for the train out. He would probably be spending all of that time snuggling with Simone. Rita's plan was to head over to The Lanes to take Freddie up on his offer to buy her some clothes, so she wouldn't have to wear the skimpy bikini all the way home.

The foot of the pier was a sea of wooden booths, canvas tents, and cotton duck curtains, where everything was sold from hot dogs to sun hats. Rita felt exhausted as she shuffled along the pebbles of the beach. She took in the panoply of colors that danced before her eyes like a kaleidoscope. There was even a splash of aquamarine. Rita missed a step as the significance of the sight hit her.

Someone was carrying her beach bag.

Rita crept over to a duck curtain on the back of one of the canvas tents. Just visible below the hem of the curtain were a pair of hairy male legs, as well as the bottom of her aquamarine beach bag. The feet were facing away from her, so the thief must have had his back to the curtain.

Rita knew how to get the bag back. She went down to one knee, interlacing the fingers of both hands in front of her to make a single fist. With a knowing smirk, she swung it upwards between the two legs visible beneath the curtain, following through until she was sure she had made devastating contact in the spot where it would count most.

There was a pained gasp from behind the curtain, and her beach bag dropped to the sand. Rita snatched it up and threw aside the curtain to confront the culprit.

"Freddie!" she cried in dismay.

Freddie had changed into shorts and a beach shirt since she had last seen him. He couldn't speak; he was bent over at the waist with both hands cupped to his groin.

"I'm so sorry!" Rita apologized frantically. "It's just a reflex. I've picked it up from hanging around with Steed."

"This Steed chap... must get you into a lot of danger." He could barely manage to get the words out.

"Oh, he does," Rita boasted. She was now down on her knees so she could talk to Freddie face to face.

Freddie looked a bit nauseous. He continued to speak falteringly between breaths.

"I was looking for you," he explained. "I found your bag abandoned on the pier. I recognized it when I saw the... ornamental hair clips." He stifled a groan.

"Oh, Freddie." Rita smiled and stroked his cheek. "They're cloisonne. My grandmother gave them to me."

"I'm afraid the money's gone from it," he said regretfully. "But it does contain... a pair of shorts and a blouse." Freddie remained doubled over with his hands pressed between his thighs.

Rita held Freddie's face in her hands and took the opportunity to plant a kiss on his lips while he was still helpless. Then she flashed him a big smile and skipped away towards the nearest cabana to put on her clothes.

From his bent position, Freddie watched the cute way her cheeks peeked out of the bikini bottom as she cavorted away, thinking it was the last time he'd get to see that sight, now that she had clothes. He wanted to give chase, but his lower abdomen still felt paralyzed.

"Right, then!" he called after her as cheerily as he could manage. "I'll just wait here until you get back."

-oOo-


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Back at the Royal Pavilion of Brighton, Special Inspector Simone Fiset led Steed into a small office off the main concourse.

"This is a temporary office they have provided me," she explained to Steed. "I thought we might spend some time alone, now that the case is solved."

The decor was a continuation of the eclectic mix of Indian and Chinese influences that shaped the rest of the Pavilion. There was a burgundy velvet couch strewn with satin throw cushions, and the desk near the window was mahogany. The French doors at the far end of the room were flanked by two thick free-standing corkscrew columns almost as high as the ceiling.

"Tastefully decorated," Steed commented politely. "These look to be replicas of the ones Bernini designed for the Baldacchino at St. Peter's," he added, gesturing to the columns by the French doors.

"Indeed they are. You have quite an eye for art," Simone complimented him. She moved over to Steed and lightly clasped her arms around his neck. He was nearly a foot taller.

"You also know a great deal about wine, and police investigation. Is there anything you're not an expert in, Monsieur Teague?"

"I pride myself on knowing a little about everything," Steed smiled.

"Then perhaps I need to test your expertise in the art of love," Simone said huskily. She reached up with her small mouth and kissed Steed. She removed his bowler and set it on the edge of the desk next to his umbrella.

Steed was mildly surprised. He didn't actively return her caresses, but he didn't resist, either.

Simone kissed him again, and her breathing became heavy as she ran her fingers through his dark, wavy hair. Her tongue flicked teasingly into his mouth. She intertwined the fingers of her right hand with Steed's left. Reaching up with her own left hand, she quickly undid the buttons of her blouse, and then expertly flipped open the front clasp on her brassiere. Her pendulous breasts fell free, and she used her interlaced fingers to guide Steed's hand to the warm, erect nipple.

"Your assistant is very beautiful," Simone whispered. "But I know from today she doesn't have anything like _these_."

There was a loud knock at the door.

"Just a minute!" Simone called out awkwardly.

She reached into her blouse, attempting to refasten the clasp on her lingerie, but it had slipped away to the back. She fished around futilely in an effort to retrieve it.

"The clasp has slipped around back. Perhaps you can—?"

Steed slid his hand into her unbuttoned blouse and reached around to the small of her back. Simone giggled at the contact.

"Oh, M'sieu, you are tickling! No matter. It is probably just a communique from my office in Paris." She gently removed his hand and clumsily attempted to re-button the blouse. After two attempts threading buttons through the wrong holes, she finally got it right. The knocking at the door continued.

Simone sang out cheerily, "I am just getting off the phone!" She turned to Steed, and in a low voice added, "How do I look?"

Without the containment of an undergarment, her nipples stood out through the shiny fabric like twin lighthouses. She quickly ran a hand through her disheveled blonde hair and attempted to adjust the chignon in the back. She looked very unprofessional, and very sexy.

Steed kept a straight face. "You look fine, Inspector Fiset." The knocking at the door continued. "Perhaps you should get the door," he advised.

"Coming!" Simone called out. She walked over to the door and undid the latch.

A tall man well over six feet in height stood there. He wore a brown derby.

He glanced down at Inspector Fiset's bosom, then looked away, embarrassed. He had heard about the new Feminism sweeping the country, and she _was_ the highest-ranking woman in the Surete; but with breasts as large as those, the woman really _did_ need to wear a bra.

Steed collected his hat and umbrella and quietly moved closer to the French doors on the other side of the room. He stood directly between the replica corkscrew pillars.

The visitor fumbled in his jacket pocket for a second, still unnerved by the brazen display presented by Simone's blouse. He pulled out a worn leather billfold and flipped it open.

"Sorry I was delayed getting here," he began. "I'm Inspector Teague of Scotland Yard."

Simone's eyes went wide with alarm, and she spun around rapidly to face Steed. There was a fire and determination in her eyes, and he could easily see now how she had earned the name 'Bulldog'.

She pointed her finger at Steed accusingly, straight as an arrow. "That man is an impostor!" she screamed to Teague.

Like Samson on the steps of the Dagon temple, Steed placed a hand outside each of the free-standing corkscrew columns, well above the center of gravity. He shoved the heavy ornamental columns towards each other; they tipped over and crashed into the opposing walls, wedging to form an 'X' that would effectively stop any pursuers. It would take well over a minute for any guards to leave the Pavilion by the front doors and run around to catch him. Steed's head was still visible above the top of the crossed columns.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Bulldog," Steed said with a broad smile, gallantly tipping his bowler. "I hope to meet you again, under less stressful circumstances." He turned to make a quick exit.

The last sight he saw was Teague attempting to budge the fallen columns, and Simone on her hands and knees trying to squirm through a small gap near the floor. The resemblance to a bulldog was complete.

Her voice cracked. "Get that man! The one in the bowler!" Her shouts were to no one in particular, since no guards had arrived yet.

Steed trotted across the grounds of the Pavilion. He removed his bowler, and with an expert toss, flipped it into the crook of a nearby tree. Then he headed off towards the train station.

"I will find you, Monsieur Bowler!" Simone called after him angrily. "Or I am not The Bulldog!"

-oOo-

Rita was walking on the beach with Freddie. She was fully dressed now, and the cloisonne clips once again held back her luxuriant red hair. Her arm was draped across his back, her hand lightly perched on his left shoulder. He was still walking a bit gingerly.

"Are you feeling better now?" she asked.

"A bit," Freddie answered, reddening with embarrassment.

"You just need to get your circulation going again," Rita replied. She took her free hand and rubbed his belly with a brisk circular motion, like one would do to one's favorite Golden Retriever. This did nothing to make Freddie less nervous.

"I don't suppose you'd like to come visit my lab in Swansea sometime?" Freddie asked shyly.

Rita stopped walking. She took her right hand and joined it to her left, her arms completing a loop around Freddie's neck. Then she moved in and gave him a kiss, cocking her head to one side.

Even though Freddie wasn't incapacitated this time, he still had no idea what to do. He brought his hands up and rested them lightly on Rita's hips.

"If you ever need to know anything about the nineteenth century, give me a call," she said gently into his ear. "I'm at the Ministry in Whitehall."

Freddie let his right hand slip down over her hip, and he gave her behind a gentle squeeze. Rita squealed in surprise and delight.

"Dr. Fredrickson, behave yourself!"

Freddie looked mortified, convinced that he had done the wrong thing; but Rita just smiled back. Then she spoke in a low voice.

"You won't forget me, will you?"

Freddie looked at her longingly. "You'll always be my _Red-Haired Woman_ come to life."

-oOo-

The train from Brighton back to London was sparsely occupied. Rita lounged next to Steed, her head resting on the shoulder of his brightly-colored beach shirt.

"I see you finally changed into your shorts," she said with an amused smirk.

"It seemed safest—I mean, best for the weather," Steed answered pleasantly. "Did you enjoy your day with Herbert?"

"You mean Freddie?" Rita asked. "Yes, very much. It's a shame he's a researcher in Swansea. For all I know, he might have been working at that lab we saved from the Bookhounds."

"How about you?" she continued. "Did you enjoy your time with Inspector Fiset?"

"You mean Bulldog?" Steed asked. "Yes, very much. It's a shame she works with the Surete out of Paris."

Rita snuggled contentedly against his shoulder.

"You've picked up quite a tan," Steed commented. "I must admit, wearing that bikini all day long seemed a bit batty, but the sun appears to have done you some good. And hardly any freckles."

"You will have to tell Miss Smith that I appreciate her taste in swimwear," she agreed. "That bikini certainly turned into an adventure."

"We should spend some more time together, only alone," Steed offered brightly. "Next week, perhaps."

"What?" Rita teased. "No government traitors, psychotic killers, or art thieves?"

"No. Just the two of us."

Rita smiled and softly nuzzled his ear with her nose as she spoke. "I look forward to that," she said. "But you attract trouble like a magnet, John Steed. I wouldn't count on things to go too smoothly."

Steed smiled back and looked deep into her brown eyes. "There's always a first time."

-oOo-


End file.
